DOMINGO
3:35 AM

Dahlia Gray

I didn't listen to Presley's voicemail until I left office.

I didn't get to leave the office until one am, after staying overtime at SAINT due to some complications with the files and lack of organization. I was one of the interns tasked with cleaning it up before tomorrow, due to some big project we're about to start on.

So, I shut my phone off for the night and turned it back on when I got into the car (that I'm renting under my mother's name). When the notifications rolled in—with several missed calls from Presley—I knew something was off. I didn't get the chance to call him back before I saw the voicemail he left: detailing how Harlow ran away to stay with his brother.

It was a short and simple message, laced with the hurt that throbbed in the back of his throat.

I think I went over the speed limit trying to get to his house.

I didn't know where to start. I tried to call Harlow on the way, but he didn't pick up. His rings went straight to voicemail, and I didn't know if it's because he's ignoring me or something happened to his phone.

It better be the latter.

I round the empty street entering into the Soberano-Godfrey neighborhood—when something caught my attention. Under the streetlights, illuminating the sidewalks of the park in its yellowing hue, a lonesome figure sat on a bench.

Not just any bench.

With a bit of a struggle, I reverse from my destination and turn into the lot, parking the car. I put the keys between my fingers once I stepped out of the vehicle—just in case I was wrong—but as I cautiously approached the bench, I began to draw the outline of my boyfriend's figure leaning against the headboard of the bench, reeling in the constellations on the clear sky.

I don't think he hears me approaching.

"I left for eight days and you ran away," I declare in the stillness of the night, causing Harlow to raise his head and stare ahead. His expression blank of emotions, before the corner of his lips slightly quirks in a sad, forced smile.

"Hi, baby," he mumbles, his voice raspy—like he's been crying. When I got close enough, and with the assistance of the streetlights, I noticed his eyes were puffy, blotches of reddened skin around his face, and his cheeks were stained with streaks.

I don't say anything as I slide into the seat beside him, lowering the makeshift weapon I fasten from my keys and cup his face into my small palm, running the pad of my thumb under his eyes and feeling the moisture and heat of his flesh from his reign of tears.

"I thought I was going to have to search all night for you," I whisper, searching his face for anything unusual. The tousle of his dark brown hair remains, his blue eyes sharp with the clarity of the ocean, and his skin refrains from any bruising. I lower my hand to tuck under his chin, raising him to meet my gaze. "What happened?"

He scoffs for a second, but doesn't move from my touch. I hear a faint click, and glance down to see a lighter in his hands, the flame dancing against the blow of the wind. I lean back, loosen my grip, afraid he would be carrying the scent of nicotine and cause my system to release a fit of coughs.

He must've noticed. It was impossible not to. His eyes, still on me, drops to the lighter in his hand and he removes his thumb, the flame extinguishes from existence.

"I'm going to quit smoking again," he says with intent, the slight grit of his jaw sharpens his cheekbones. "I'm going to do it and this time, I'm going to succeed."

"Again?" I repeat with uncertainty, his eyes attend to me.

"Again." He nods with a confirmation, giving me everything I needed to know. I don't need to ask him what caused him to relapse because I know—Scott. I know his brother is his brother, and he holds a strong admiration for him, but I won't lie and say Scott was a positive influence.

"What happened?" I ask again, drawing the conversation away from his addiction. "I thought you ran away."

He scoffs, he turns away from me. I frown. "I did." He says, his eyes casting off into the vacancy of the park. He draws sardonically, "until I found my dear older brother is living with our father."

I knew the revelation pains him, even if he chooses to hurt it behind a grim layer of scorns.

"I—" He sucks in a sharp breath, jaw clenching, "I don't want to talk about it. It already fucking hurts and I don't want to..." He trails off, his words end with a choke.

"We don't have to get into it if you don't want to," I reassure him, grabbing his hand and lacing my fingers through his. Even as his girlfriend, I was surprised he didn't push me off when I resorted to touch of comfort. "Just...breathe, okay? I don't want you to have to think about anything else."

"Presley is upset with me."

"Did you not just hear me?" I say with bewilderment, causing a small chuckle to escape from Harlow, and he turns back around to face me. A smile appears on my lips as well.

He swallows. "Presley's still upset with me," he repeats, after a moment of silence. "Everyone else forgave me but he hasn't."

"He's hurt."

"I know."

"You just have to give him time," I offer, giving his hand a squeeze. "He's your brother at the end of the day."

I remember teasing him back in the halls about Presley. I remember Harlow reacting offensive about the topic and with a snarl, declaring strongly that Presley isn't. I knew this family was going to have an impact on him, I'm surprised it took him this long to realize it.

Harlow gives me a sad smile, issuing a nod.

"He's my brother, but I'm afraid I'm not his."

My lips curve into a frown.

His head falls onto my shoulder and a sigh exits from him. "I'm so fucking tired, Dahlia," Harlow confesses, after a long silence. Another breath he inhales, I could feel the vibration of his chest. "I'm so tired."

"Then," I look down to him, noticing how his body had to slump against the seat in order to reach my shoulders. "Close your eyes."

Harlow considers the option, tilting his head to meet my gaze. "Promise you'll take care of me in the dark?"

A laugh escapes me. "I even have my little weapon right here," I bring up my keys for him to see, causing a smile to split from my boyfriend in response. "You're safe with me."

A sudden seriousness dawns over his features, with the still of his smile, and he says, "I'm always safe with you."

━━━━━

DOMINGO
6:29 AM

Dahlia Gray

It's nearing seven am and I can't seem to find sleep.

I've tried a dozen times, and some, but all of them ended with futile results. My body still had full access in mobile functions and I wasn't picturing storyboards of tales behind my closed lids. It was a vast emptiness of nothing. The only thing I could truly think of was the heat of my boyfriend's body pressed against mine and his fingers dancing across the handles of my waist.

I glance down at Harlow.

After he took a good hour gathering himself at the bench, I drove him home and we snuck back into the house nearing sunrise. I tried relentlessly to force him up the stairs and take refuge in his bed, but he refused to go in and wake Presley from his slumber.

Instead, he leads me to the familiar couch where we shared a lot of our nights together and slump onto the cushions, taking me along with him.

I happened to be the one under him this time.

Harlow fell asleep with his head resting against my chest, arms wrapped around my waist, before he dipped into a deep slumber with little difficulties. He went before I could—and while I tried to take the solitude of time to appreciate the peacefulness that swept his features and how his arms wrapped around my body like a child cradling a teddy bear, I couldn't sleep.

No matter how much I tried.

And I know why.

I run my fingers through his  thick, ruly hair, trying to find serenity in the close proximity of him on me. While it comforts me in many ways unimaginable, it couldn't help my sleep. My thoughts were rooted deep in the depths of my brain, and while I tried to shelve them for another day, another time—they refused to budge.

"Baby," I muse softly, running my fingers through the ripples of his dark roots. He doesn't respond, even breaths fanning against the exposure of my skin. "Harlow."

An indistinctive moan escapes the back of his throat as he adjusts, shifting in the limited space of the couch. His movements were sluggish, with his chin tilting upwards, closed eyes flicking up to meet my potential gaze, before he opened them, drowsiness wrinkling around his irises. "Mhm?"

"I can't sleep," I say in a mere whisper, slipping my hand from his hair to the back of his neck. A guilted frown cuts at my lips. "I'm sorry to wake you."

"It's okay," he reassures with a yawn, struggling to hold up his gaze. He looks at me through slitted eyes, chin brushing against the valley of my breasts. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

I need to ask you something, I thought selfishly, but shook my head for exploring down that road, knowing now is not the time.

Instead, I vouch for a simpler option. "I think I need some fresh air. I'll be back."

I don't think Harlow completely registered what I said, because while he dips his chin in understanding, he doesn't make adjustments to allow me out. "Harlow," I whisper again, causing his eyes to flutter open in response, reading me through the somnolent of his blue-eyed slits. I opt for another method. "I need to pee."

This time, he understands me.

Harlow lowers himself onto the carpet before pushing up into a standing position, hazingly leaning from side to side in resistance to keep himself awake. I quickly shuffle from the couch and when my boyfriend noticed I left, he quickly took the open space for himself and drop back in—falling asleep immediately.

A soft chuckle escapes me. I took a mental picture of the image in front of me, before bending down and planting a small kiss on his forehead, causing his brow to wrinkle in recognition. I smile.

I headed towards the foyer and saw the brightening sky through the sidelights of the door, and could feel my pulse accelerating in response. I head over the little area for our shoes, and begin slipping onto my sneakers.

"Where are you going?"

I jump at the sound, producing a small yelp as I turn to face the source, spotting Presley sitting on the second-to-last step of the stairs, hands hunched between his legs.

A hand on my heart, hearing the beats of my accelerated thumps in my chest, before forcing my pulse to calm. "I—" I point to him, before gesturing up the steps, accusingly, "aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

"I didn't know we hired a babysitter," he counters playfully, avoiding the question. I gave him a pointed look. Presley sighs. "I can't sleep."

"Really?" I step towards the stairs, taking the empty seat beside him. He scoots to the side. "Me too."

"I know," he says, I give him a raised brow. "I heard you mumbling to yourself back there with Har—" His jaw sets, swallowing his words. Presley takes in a sharp breath, forming fists by his side, with whitening knuckles.

A silence bestows upon us, as Presley gathers himself beside me. His head drops low, staring at the oak planks off the steps and his hands return between the space of his legs, clamped together.

"He regrets it, you know?" I say, breaking the tension. "Leaving you—it hurts him."

A scoff escapes him before he could catch it, "he's not the only person that got hurt."

I frown, stringing together my next argument, "I know...I know Harlow can be difficult to deal with. I received driving lessons from him for half the year," I say with a laugh, trying to slice the awkwardness in half. Presley doesn't react. "And I'm not telling you to forgive him, but," I swallow, finishing solemnly, "he does regret it."

Presley doesn't say anything, running the pad of his thumb through his knuckles.

"I—" He cuts himself off, clenching down his jaw, hard. "I don't know if I can forgive him."

My frown deepens, "not even in the future?"

"I don't know." He sucks in a deep breath, his expression remaining neutral despite the emotions surging through his system right now and the impeccable amount of concentration he sports trying to tame them from showing. "This wasn't the first—" A forceful sigh escapes him, causing his eyes to close for a meditated second. "At least he has you."

"He has you too," I add, gripping the loose strings Presley is giving me. I don't want Harlow to burden the pain of losing another person—especially his brother. He just lost Scott and his father; to lose Presley alongside them, well, I think it would break him. "Please don't give up on him."

Presley raises his gaze and stares off into the distance, picking lines at the foyer with its open flooring and tussles of shoes toppling over each other in the corner. His expression slips into a neutral set, his jaw loosens, but the pad of his thumble still brush across his knuckles.

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

He turns to me, awaiting my answer to his question, his eyes clearing. I open my mouth, about to redirect him back on topic, when he adds, "I'll tell you why I couldn't if you tell me yours."

And his deals are tempting too.

I scrunch my nose, "you're like the devil on my shoulder."

Presley chuckles, forming a small smile. "I'll remember that for my next Halloween costume."

I can't help but mimic his grin.

"What if you tell me yours first and I'll tell you mine."

"I wasn't aware you're allowed to switch deals on the devil."

"Hey," I hold up both my hands in innocence, "I didn't sign the contract yet."

Presley releases a small chuckle, but looks thoughtful, before he nods in defeat. "Fair," he drops his hands to his side, planting his palms onto the surface of the steps. He turns away. "I couldn't sleep because I can't stop thinking about my friend."

"Friend?"

"Friend." He nods in confirmation, a slip of pain crosses his features before he tries to mask it behind a passive stare. "He was a good friend of mine."

I sense that's all he's going to offer up tonight.

"Your turn."

Presley turns to face me, eyes reading expectantly, as I gather myself. I inhale a deep breath, with my pulse drumming in my ear, "well," I begin, finding myself dropping my gaze to the floor, not wanting him to read me. "I don't want to, um, seem selfish—and I promise I'm not—but, um," my hands clench and unclench by my side, alleviate the tension in my nerves and feeling the weight of the anchor lifting from my chest. "I wanted to ask Harlow to move in with me. The apartment is ready."

I wince at my finishing, closing my eyes shut. I don't want to be labelled in the same category as Scott Harlow, or be viewed as an equivalent, but it's starting to seem like that. I've been thinking about this for a while now, and even asked my mother for permission—to which she surprisingly agreed to—but I didn't know he was going to run away.

"Dahlia."

I open my eyes and turn to Presley, "I know this is some awful timing, and I was going to ask for the family's blessing before I asked him, but I-I don't know, I've been wanting for a while now, and now, I think if I tried to ask, it seems...it seems..." I forgot the English word, balancing it on the tip of my tongue, "inconsiderate."

Presley doesn't give me a proper response. His expression is unreadable but the gears in his head are shifting and working hard. His gaze settles on me, trying to read my intentions, and while I felt a genuine stab of guilt pass through me, and I tried to reverse all my actions with an apology—readying myself to take back the offer, when he cuts in: "do it."

I'm taken back. "Do it?" I repeat, not sure if I heard him correctly. This might be a lucid dream and I might've been asleep the entire time.

"Do it," he nods his head in confirmation, hands drawn back between his legs, "I'll help you convince the family for their permission, but I say: do it. He loves you. I doubt he'll pass up the opportunity to live with you."

"But your family—"

"Even if I haven't forgiven him yet," he cuts me off, speaking solemnly, it didn't even bother me, "I doubt he'll leave the rest of us. I...I wouldn't worry about it too much."

An uneasiness still pools at the pit of my stomach, "are you sure?"

"Yeah," he nods with a yawn, picking himself up from the steps and descending down the stairs, facing back to me. Presley offers his hand, "do it. I'll even help you move furniture if you need to."

I completely melted into his offer. A broad, ear-to-ear smile found its way to my lips and before long, in the spur of the moment, I jumped from my spot and tackle Presley into a hug.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you—"

"He's sleeping, Dahlia."

I pull back instantly, placing a finger to my lips. I nod my head in agreement, "right." I acknowledge softly, stepping back and blushing at my mistake.

Presley smiles down at me, but follows my method of communication, mouthing a nonchalant "it's not a problem," before he points up the stairs.

I follow him with my eyes until he reaches the top and disappears behind a creaking door. I couldn't shake the excitement pulsing through my veins, but calmed myself, taking leisure steps to the return of the living room.

By the time I reach the couch, where Harlow is taking up the entire space in his slumber, figments of lights are shining through the blinds and the blazing ball of light has risen from beneath the horizon. It's morning, and I know this technically isn't the time to sleep, I still tapped Harlow on his shoulder anyways.

He understood who I was without opening his eyes and adjusting himself, allowing me to crawl into the small space beside him. Harlow, still in the deep stages of REM, still had the craft to adjust himself precisely back onto me, with his head laying on my chest.

I smile, as his arms wrap themselves back around me, pulling me closer, with the heat of his body resting against mine. He's back to cradling me like a teddy bear, and he adjusts a few, until his body sudden stills, almost as if he found the perfect position and is at his crowning point of peace.

My finger returns back to the softness of his hair, wrapping a curl around my finger, when he mumbles beneath me, "can you sleep now?"

My heart bursts in emotions as the words pour from him, because, even in the state of his deepest slumber, he's still conscious enough to recognize me. The curve of my body, the heat of my body on him, and the problems I face.

I smile, with my eyes growing heavy. I lean into him, stars twinkling behind the flutters of my closed lids, and with my lips brushing against the crook of his bare skin, I kiss him there.

Nodding, a yawn escapes me, and I find myself uttering, "I love you."

Then, I'm out.

a/n: happy birthday cassandra!! i hope you have a great birthday and remember to stay safe!! drinks for everyone, on me! i hope this was a good present!!